He left his chair and came to my side.

“Why do you look so sorrowful, Medoline?  I meant that it gave me pleasure that you were my friend.  I did not think that you cared for me.”

“I am surprised at myself for caring so much for you when you are so hard on me.  I suppose it is because you are my guardian, and I have no one else, scarcely, to love.”  I was beginning to think I must either escape hastily to my room, or apply the bit of cobweb lace once more to my eyes, which, if I could judge from my feelings, would soon be saturated with my tears.

“I did not think I was hard on you,” he said, gently.  “I have been afraid lest I was humoring your whims too much; but unselfishness, and thought for the poor, have been such rare traits in the characteristics of my friends, I have not had a heart hard enough to interfere with your instincts.”

Here was an entirely new revelation to me; I bethought me of Mrs. Flaxman’s remark a short time before, and repeated it to him.

“I do not think I shall ever have paternal feelings towards you, Medoline, I am not old enough for that.  Tell Mrs. Flaxman, if she speaks that way again, I am not anxious for her to fasten in your heart filial affection for me.”

“But we may be just as much to each other as if you were my own father?” I pleaded.

“Quite as much,” he said, with emphasis.  I forgot my tears; for some way my heart had got so strangely light and glad, tears seemed an unnecessary incumbrance; and even the thought that had been awaked by the disturbing harmonies of Beethoven’s majestic conceptions were folded peacefully away in their still depths again.

CHAPTER XIII.

Alone with his dead.

At breakfast Mr. Winthrop was more insistent in his curiosity about the concert of the previous evening.  Mrs. Flaxman assured him that we were all agreeably disappointed in our evening’s entertainment.

“Mr. Bovyer was especially charmed with Medoline’s appreciation of his favorite composer.  He asked permission to call on her to-day.”

He gave me a keen glance, saying:  “I hope you did not grow too enthusiastic.  One need not hang out a placard to prove we can comprehend the intricate and profound.”

Mrs. Flaxman answered hastily for me.

“No, indeed; she was too quiet; and only Mr. Bovyer and myself detected the tears dropping behind her fan.  But Mr. Bovyer seemed gratified at the meaning he read from them.”

My face was burning; but after a few seconds’ silence I stole a glance at Mr. Winthrop.  He was apparently absorbed in his breakfast, and Beethoven’s Symphonies were not mentioned in his presence until evening, when Mr. Bovyer, true to his appointment, sat chatting for two or three hours with Mr. Winthrop and his other guests.  As usual, I sat a silent listener, comprehending readily a good many things